


Sideways

by Pholo



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Derealization/Dissociation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Torture, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-09-26 18:44:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9916034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pholo/pseuds/Pholo
Summary: Shiro is captured by the Galra. He escapes—and escapes, and escapes.





	1. Chapter 1

The cell door bursts open. The distant blare of alarms echo down the hallway.

Keith is braced against the doorframe, his body backlit by the red warning lights. His eyes lock with Shiro's through the film of his visor.

“Shiro,” he breathes.

Shiro, from his curled position on the floor, lifts his head. “Knew you'd come,” Shiro says. There's blood on his teeth from his split lip.

An explosion rocks the ground. Keith rushes to Shiro's side. He hauls Shiro off the floor. “I've got Shiro,” Keith says to his helmet, as he bundles Shiro out of the cell. Shiro doesn't catch the garbled radio response. Keith's hand brushes Shiro's ribs, and Shiro stifles a cry. “Right; on our way.”

The hallway seems to stretch on and on forever. Shiro feels himself start to droop against Keith's side as they lurch towards the cargo bay. “Stay with me, Shiro,” Keith commands, over the alarms. “Come on, don't give up now...”

The ship strains and wobbles. The metal walls groan as Keith wrenches Shiro around a corner. The two hover behind the bend, unseen as a patrol of Galra soldiers trample past. Keith watches as the Galra disappear down the corridor. “Thanks, Pidge,” Keith says, and Shiro lets his head fall back against the wall. Then they're on their way again, Keith's arm wrapped snugly around Shiro's back. The support is barely enough, and they have to pause more than once to let Shiro sit and breathe. These times, Keith follows Shiro down onto the floor. He crouches beside Shiro until his vision clears, voice gentle but stern as he coaches Shiro back onto his feet.

“Shiro,” Keith murmurs once, his hand on Shiro's back as the ship creaks. The alarms flare red-to-dark, red-to-dark. “What did they do to you?”

There's a hearty crash, and the ship tilts sideways. Hunk has arrived, and he's taken out a football field-worth of wall along the next corridor. The lion hovers as Shiro and Keith stumble towards the breakage, yellow face punched through the ship's exoskeleton like a mounted deer at an Earth bar. Galra soldiers are already spread out around the lion's head. They spatter the lion with gunfire, oblivious to Keith and Shiro's approach; Keith raises his weapon with his free hand, but a single shot from the lion's mouth reduces the Galra to hot rubble. Keith and Shiro duck under the assault of excess heat energy. Another order from Keith's helmet, and they're cleared to approach. Shiro blacks out before Keith can lead him forward onto the ship.

In the space between explosions, Shiro wakes, then drifts off again. He expects Keith to leave once they've boarded Hunk's lion, but he's there every time Shiro regains consciousness, hands fastened around Shiro's wrists like he can tether him to life with his grip. “Don't do this,” Keith says, whenever he feels Shiro start to slip away. “Don't you dare...”

The ground shifts. Shiro's head swims. Hunk calls out for Allura—then there are more hands on him, under his arms. “I have a pod ready,” Allura says, somewhere over Shiro's head. “Help me carry him to the main deck—”

 

 

Shiro wakes up alone, curled on his side on the floor of his cell. The door is closed. The alarms are quiet outside.

Shiro's body feels heavy—alien. There's a disconnect between his brain and his limbs. It takes some time for Shiro to turn his head. The cold cell floor stings Shiro's cheek.

Shiro's cell is empty. No Keith. No Hunk. No Allura. The walls are dark and un-breachable. Shiro lifts his head and winces at the pain. He blinks through the gloom, and scrubs the sleep from his eyes.

The ship hums. The hall lights cast a thin line of light under Shiro's cell door. Recycled air whistles through the vents.

No paladins. No Voltron.

Dazed, Shiro rests back against the floor. It had been a very vivid dream. Keith's hands had felt so warm around Shiro's wrists. Shiro studies his arms, but he counts no new marks or bruises. Shiro flexes his fingers once, twice, then looks away from his hands. With no small amount of trouble, Shiro wriggles his arms out of their respective sleeves—he draws them under his shirt, and hugs his torso to preserve body heat.

Shiro lays there, head tilted towards the door, and waits.

 

 

The Galra come to collect Shiro every few days. They electrocute him, or beat him—but they never speak to him. Their ministrations finished, the Galra return Shiro to his cell. The pattern becomes weirdly comfortable in its familiarity.

One day, when Shiro is manacled to the electrocution rack, Keith clambers through the door, shoots Shiro's torturers clear off their feet, and proceeds to rip Shiro's restraints away with a metal clipper. More than a bit surprised, Shiro slithers off the metal wrack and onto the floor. Keith catches Shiro before he can crumple: “I've got Shiro,” Keith says to his radio. There's a garbled reply. “Be right there.”

Keith hefts Shiro up along his left side, arm slung under Shiro's. Shiro can barely move, much less walk—but his sparse meals have lightened his figure, and Keith manages to maneuver him out of the room with little support. “Hang on, Shiro,” Keith says, and his grip tightens around Shiro's torso. “We're almost there.”

They aren't almost there. Keith half-carries Shiro down a warren of passages. There are guards all along the hallway, and they have to pause every few moments to evade a new line of soldiers. The alarms are off, but the Galra are on high alert. The radio chatter in Keith's helmet never stops.

“Keith,” Shiro tries, between patrols. “Listen to me—”

“No,” Keith says. “You always do this. I'm not leaving you behind.”

“You might have to.”

“Not today.”

There are footsteps from down the hall. Keith swears under his breath. They're out of cover—good cover, anyway. Keith tugs Shiro down behind the crest of a metal pillar. They bow their heads to keep out of sight. The troop passes by none the wiser, eyes trained on the opposite end of the hall.

Then one of the soldiers stops.

Shiro's breath catches. Keith tenses beside him, hands on his weapon. The soldier turns his head—

—And the hall is alight with gunfire.

Shiro, already on the edge of consciousness, loses track of the Galra's movements. He's made aware of a red blur as Keith drags Shiro out of the maelstrom. Keith must have returned fire at some point, because two of the four guards are already parallel to Shiro on the floor.

It's at this point that a shot finds Shiro's shoulder. It sears through his skin, straight through the bone and muscle. Shiro's vision goes white before he can even process the pain. Another round of fire, and Keith's hands are a solid presence on his shoulder. That's right: Pressure.

“You're gonna' be okay, Keith,” Shiro gasps. He can't see. Then the pain rises up through Shiro like a house fire; he chokes on a scream. Keith pins Shiro to the ground under his hands. He shouts into his radio, over and over again. Shiro's blood surges up between his fingers. “Allura! Allura, we need help! Somebody get here _now_! We need—”

 

 

“—Help.”

Shiro's eyes shoot open. His heart clammers against the walls of his chest.

The ship hums under his ear.

Gently, Shiro peels himself up off the floor. His ribs protest at the movement.

Dark room. Cold floor. Sliver of light under the door. Whirl of the air ducts.

Definitely his cell.

Shiro leans back against the closest wall of the cell. He crosses his legs. Outside, a pair of guards walk by. Their footsteps resonate down the hallway after they turn the corner.

Shiro puts his head in his hands.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Shiro makes it to the castle once.

Coran reaches him first. He and Keith carry Shiro to a pod; they prop him up against the back wall and shut the hatch. The ever-present thunder of spacial warfare cuts off suddenly, replaced with a gentle drone that tickles Shiro's skin. Shiro watches through the glass as Keith steps back from the pod. His hands are dark with Shiro's blood. Shiro lets his eyes slip closed. He feels warm, and safe.

Pod-sleeps are always empty. Shiro doesn't dream. It seems as though he opens his eyes mere moments after he closed them. There's a hiss of air as the pod opens; Shiro blinks under the lights of the main deck.

Allura stands poised at the control hub, her back to Shiro's pod. She doesn't seem to have heard Shiro's pod door open.

Quiet shrouds the main deck like a wooly blanket. Used to the constant undercurrent of fans and machinery, Shiro strains to catch any background noise. There's a little tap-tap sound whenever Allura's fingernails brush the dashboard; her screen chirps at her once or twice. Shiro steps out from his pod, careful not to alert Allura to his presence. He looks out the ship's windows at the stars. His cell had been windowless, of course. Shiro's eyes prickle at the view. The stars drift by like snowflakes caught on an updraft. The velvet net of space stretches and contorts with the ship's forward motion. Hyperdrive, then. They must be on the run.

“Shiro?”

Shiro whips around. Allura is turned to him, one hand braced against the mainframe of her dashboard. “Shiro!” she repeats, with obvious delight. Allura dashes from her console. Shiro has a moment to brace himself before arms are flung about his midsection. “You're all right!” Allura says. “We'd begun to think we'd lost you...”

“I'm fine,” Shiro says, because he doesn't like the alternative. “How is everyone? How long was I out?”

“A few days.” Allura leans back, holding Shiro at arm's length. “The paladins have been worried sick about you...shall I call them onto the main deck? They'll be so relieved to see you out of your pod...”

“I'd like that,” Shiro says. “One at a time would be great, though. I'm still feeling a little rough around the edges...”

“Yes, of course,” Allura says. She gives Shiro's arms one last squeeze, like she can't quite believe he's there, and retreats to her console. There's a smile on her face as she taps open a comm channel. “Keith? You ought to come up here...”

Shiro doesn't ask why Allura called Keith first. He waits as Keith makes the trip up to their floor. He feels his whole body start to buzz, like his molecules have turned to static.

Keith rounds the corner far sooner than Shiro expected. His usual clothes are askew, his gaze turned dark by the bags under his eyes. He looks ruffled and wild.

Shiro stares at Keith, and Keith stares at Shiro. Allura stands at her console. The stars glide past the windows.

Then there's a wobbly smile on Keith's face. It's a look of such utter relief—of love—that Shiro feels his legs go weak. He has to lock his knees to keep himself upright.

“You're awake,” Keith says, after a while.

Shiro clears his throat.

“Yeah,” Shiro says. “It's...good to be back.”

“We missed you.”

“So I heard.”

Keith lets out a little huff. He seems to make up his mind suddenly: He stalks forward until he's a whisper from Shiro's arms, and leans up onto the balls of his feet. Shiro's mind goes blank. He registers Keith's hand on his arm as he tilts his head—as Keith reaches up to press his lips to Shiro's. For a moment, Shiro can't remember how to move. Then Shiro's eyes fall closed. He raises his hands to grasp Keith's shoulders, his arms, his back—

 

 

—And he's shocked awake. A Galra soldier stares down at Shiro with harsh yellow eyes.

Shiro's vision constricts. His heartbeat, rabbit-quick, flutters under his ribs. A moment ago he was lightyears away, on the Castle of Lions. Now he's flat on his back, manacled to the metal surface of the Galra's electrocution rack.

The same soldier asks Shiro a question. Shiro doesn't understand, so the soldier gives his head a shake.

“Who is Keith?” the soldier demands, and the words sound like colors.

It's the first time the Galra have spoken to Shiro since his capture. It feels strange to be addressed outside of his dreams.

“Someone...back home,” Shiro says. He guesses the Galra only know the paladins by their respective lions.

“Is he one of your pilots?”

There's no good answer to that, so Shiro stays silent. Shiro must be further gone than he realizes, because the soldier doesn't press him. Rather, he glares down at Shiro, like he can draw the answer out of him with his eyes.

“Take him back to his cell,” the soldier says at last. Shiro exhales slowly through his nose. His strained hands go slack under their manacles. The soldier at the control panel sits up. He flicks through a set of keys, then ticks open Shiro's restraints one by one.

The two soldiers carry Shiro back to his room. Shiro feels his body start to fall away from him. It's as though his spirit has taken leave of his corporeal form. Shiro watches, suspended above the scene like a distant star, as the Galra deposit his body onto the floor. Shiro floats, and he dreams...

 

 

“'A virtual mind-scape,'” Shiro says, as Keith climbs out of a cell vent, “'that reflects its wearer's greatest hopes and fears.'”

“What are you—” Keith pauses to drop down from the ventilation duct, and his boots make a short “clap” against the floor. “Never mind. Listen, Shiro—Pidge bought us some time, but we need to get to the lower decks before the alarms start up. Can you walk?”

Shiro only lays there on his side, pressed against the far wall of his cell. “It's in the air,” Shiro says. “Or the food, or the clothes they gave me. They're trying to break me with my own mind.”

“Shiro,” Keith says, sharply.

“I'm sorry, Keith. I'm not coming this time.”

“'This time?'” There's another round of radio chatter, and Keith shakes his head. “I've got Shiro. No, he's not okay—look, give us a tick. We'll be right there.” Keith crosses the cell and drops to his knees beside Shiro's tousled form. He cups Shiro's face between his hands. “Shiro. Please. We have to get you out of here.”

“Is that really what I want the most?” Shiro chokes out, heedless of Keith's pleas. His hands find Keith's. They're warm, like he remembers—like he's dreamed about. “For you to...” Shiro's voice breaks. “For you to kiss me? I'm your team leader...I'm like an older brother to you...how could I want—? How could I be that...sick?”

“Shiro—”

“I'm sorry,” Shiro says. His hands convulse around Keith's fingers. “You have to go on without me. I'm not fit to lead Voltron anymore.”

“Of course you are,” Keith snaps. He leans down so that their noses brush. “You have to lead us, Shiro. We can't do this without you. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

But Shiro won't be swayed. “Please,” Shiro says. “Please, Keith. You can do this.”

“I can't!” Keith snarls. “I need you. We need you.”

“You can pilot the black lion.”

“I won't! I swear to god, Shiro—”

But then the alarms start to wail. The strip of light under the door brightens to an angry red. Keith's head whips up; Shiro doesn't have the strength to crane his neck. Keith curses. His radio screams at him through his helmet. They're close enough that Shiro can pick up the words: “Get out of there, Keith!” Allura shouts. “Keith, can you hear me? They're about to—”

The metal door crashes open. Keith flattens himself across Shiro's body to shield him from the laser-fire. The world erupts, and Shiro sees red, red, red...

 

 

It occurs to Shiro that he doesn't want to be saved anymore.

He doesn't want to lead Voltron. He doesn't even want to see Keith—more than that, he wants to spare Keith from his perversity.

Shiro doesn't expect to dream when he no longer wants to live. So he's surprised one day when he turns and sees Coran on the other side of his cell, sat up against the wall with a big bruise under one eye.

“Rough day today, eh?” Coran sighs, eyes closed and arms crossed. “Got a right thrashing. Don't know how much more I can take of this treatment...”

Shiro's brow furrows. “Why are you here?” he asks, and his throat aches from disuse. He coughs a little, and shifts on the floor.

Coran opens his eyes. He fixes Shiro with a look. “What do you mean?” he says. “I've been here all along, haven't I? We were captured together, Shiro.”

Shiro blinks. “Yes,” he agrees, lamely. “That...makes sense, I suppose.”

“Right. Sounds like your head got kicked around a little back there.” Coran slips further down against the wall. “I'm sorry, Shiro,” he says, after a moment. “I'd offer to help, but without any supplies...”

“I know,” Shiro says. “The pain's not that bad, Coran. I'll be okay.”

Coran puffs out a long sigh. He doesn't believe Shiro, of course. Shiro grins a little.

The two lapse back into silence. Shiro counts the steps of the guards outside.

“I guess I need to talk to someone,” Shiro decides, at last. “Someone my age or older. I never want to unload on the paladins. Kids shouldn't have to deal with this kind of thing...”

“They're hardly children, Shiro,” Coran says. “But if you want to talk, I won't stop you.” Coran shuffles around to face Shiro fully. “What's on your mind?”

“I...” Shiro pauses. He swallows, and has to work the words up through his throat: “I'm in love with Keith.”

That shuts Coran up for a while. When Shiro finds the strength to lift his head, Coran's eyes are wide with shock, his eyebrows raised to his hairline. Shiro lets the air clear before he says, “That's why I hope you won't argue with me when I say I need to stay. When Voltron comes—you have to leave me behind.”

“Whatever for?” Coran manages, past his surprise.

Shiro makes a “pfft” noise of disbelief. “Because I'm sick?” he suggests. “I have a crush on a teenager, Coran. I'm not mentally...right. I need help. Professional help. Even before I realized how I...felt about Keith, I knew that.” Shiro lets his head drop back against the floor. “I was a prisoner for a year, Coran. I can't sleep most nights. I have violent flashbacks. I can't lead a team like this.”

“Well, you're gonna' have to,” Coran says. Shiro startles at the firmness of his tone. “I don't think you realize how much you mean to Voltron, Shiro. We all care about you deeply. Your absence could very well break up the team.”

“You don't know that,” Shiro says.

“Don't I?” Coran tilts his head at him. “I know you'd have Keith replace you—so where, pray tell, would you expect us to find a new paladin for the red lion?”

“You've replaced paladins before,” Shiro points out. “And anyway, you could always fly her...”

Coran scoffs. “I've tried,” he says, and waves the prospect away. “Think of the other paladins, Shiro. Do you honestly believe they'd be able to meld with a new paladin after you'd died?” Coran lowers his voice then, his tone gentle: “When you form Voltron, you create a new entity. You can't replace a piece of a soul.”

Coran's words cut deep. Shiro's chest feels like a pit. His hands are fists on the ground, cradled to his chest. “I can't do this, Coran,” Shiro says.

“Not on your own, no,” Coran agrees. “If you're reluctant to share with the other paladins, Allura and I will assist you in your recovery.”

“That's very kind of you to offer, but—” Shiro stops, his eyes on the wall. He waits for the words to come, mouth open, but he can't seem to finish his sentence.

Coran seems to understand. He frowns at Shiro, sadly. “Just think about it,” he suggests. “We might have a while to wait, after all...”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I'm gonna' finish my homework before I finish this chapter  
> My book for class: "...Devised a system of nomenclature based on hue, value, and saturation (which he called 'chroma'). He broke the color wheel down into five principal hues and five intermediate hues, making a total of ten. The hues are divided even further into ten numbered subsets. A specific violet, for example, might be centered at '5' or shift by degrees towards—"  
> Me: Nvm I'm gonna' finish the chapter
> 
> AND SO. Here we are. 
> 
> This chapter's playlist:  
> The Ring - Tancred  
> Prosthetic Love - Typhoon  
> A Dream Within a Dream - Oren Lavie  
> Make Me Real - She
> 
> See you next time!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Shiro lies on the floor a lot—and not always on his own accord.

The cold reminds Shiro of late winter on the lake, back when snowfall turned the air to static. Shiro pretends he's burrowed under the snow.

It's dark under the drifts. The wind stirs the trees up above; Shiro can hear his own heartbeat over the moan of the pines. He listens to the blood circulate through his body. The snow piles up, miles overhead, and the powder seals around Shiro like a pale cocoon. His whole world fuzzes over.

Shiro's pulse slows. He opens his eyes and sees Keith's shirtfront.

“Shiro?” Keith mumbles. Shiro feels an arm shift down his shoulder. “You awake?”

They're in Shiro's room—on his bed. Shiro lays on his side, nestled up against Keith's chest. Keith skims his hand up and down Shiro's shoulder blade, and the blankets rustle as he dips his head. Shiro looks up and catches a glimpse of Keith's face. Keith's eyes are only half-open, his hair soft and askew. He was obviously asleep a moment ago.

The blankets resettle over Shiro's torso. It's dark; not dark like Shiro's cell or his cave under the snow, but a warm, gentle dark, like the space under the covers.

“Bad dream?” Keith guesses. His hand stills on Shiro's back, his body curled towards Shiro's on the bed.

Shiro swallows. His skin prickles where Keith's hand meets his shirt.

“Not always,” Shiro says.

Keith sighs at him.

“Typical Shiro.” Keith says. “So mysterious...”

Shiro shoots Keith a tiny smile. He forces his muscles to unclench; Shiro's body slumps against the mattress, and Keith's hand slithers off Shiro's back. Shiro's left hand brushes Keith's shirt as he relaxes his fingers. 

There's a beat of silence.

“Go back to sleep, Keith,” Shiro says.

Keith puckers his lips and blows a little air onto Shiro's cowlick. It's an unexpected gesture, playful and oh-so fond. A few strands of Shiro's hair fall back across Shiro's nose.

Shiro's chest constricts. He bunches the sheets between his hands so he can't hold Keith's hand.

“G'night,” Keith says, over Shiro's head. Keith rests back against his pillow. Shiro watches, a breadth from Keith's collarbone, as Keith's chest rises and falls, rises and falls. He can't remember the last time he saw Keith sleep so soundly.

“Good night,” Shiro says, to the darkness.

Far away, an air vent whirs.

 

 

The next time Keith comes to rescue him, Shiro doesn't protest. He scrapes himself up off the cell floor and staggers to his feet—lifts an arm when Keith moves to grab Shiro around the waist.

“I've got Shiro,” Keith says to his helmet. “Guide us through, Pidge.”

It's a fairly standard rescue. Keith managed to smuggle himself onboard disguised as a cargo pilot. Somewhere along the road he'd shirked his armor outfit; now he and Shiro bob and weave through the Galran corridors at Pidge's command, always on the verge of recapture. As they flit along a passageway, light and skittish like moths, Shiro catches sight of a hangar door. It's bulbous; a metal pimple on the skin of the ship. It's barely wide enough for a hang-glider, let alone a Galran vessel. 

It's here that Shiro's vision starts to go white.

“Come on, Shiro,” Keith says, and his grip tightens around Shiro's torso. “Almost there...”

“So you always say.” Shiro feels himself deflate against Keith's side. His feet are like wet clay; he slips once on his way across the hall. Keith has to drag Shiro the last meter to the door. He props Shiro up along a nearby wall, turns to the door and yanks open the hatch. A bubble of atmosphere around the Galran ship shields Keith from the harsh vacuum of space. Keith leans out of the ship, hand braced along the frame of the door, and waves a hand. “We're here,” he says. “On your mark.”

There's a moment of pause—then a shimmer, like heat waves or underwater shadows. The green lion unfolds from the dark, mere feet from the doorway. She reaches out, mouth open, until her maw brushes the hide of the ship. The connection point between the lion's mouth and the doorway creates a small tunnel. Keith wastes no time; he gathers Shiro to his chest and all-but tows him down the makeshift skybridge. The green lion's mouth slides closed as Keith and Shiro reach the back of the “throat,” and the Galran ship disappears behind a wall of armor. Shiro can hear the distant wail of Galran alarms. They've been spotted.

The lion abandons the doorway with a great shift of metal. A fireworks show of laser-fire erupts from the Galran ship; an explosion shakes the walls of the lion's head. Pidge streaks out of range. Shiro can hear Keith's helmet, livid with radio chatter as Keith guides Shiro onto the floor. The lion shudders against Shiro's spine.

“Hold on,” Keith says. The room blurs, and Shiro's eyes fall shut. The floor feels very soft suddenly. Shiro drifts away, Keith's hands warm on his shirt.

 

 

Shiro comes to slowly.

His head feels like styrofoam. He doesn't open his eyes right away; he flexes his fingers, one at a time. There's no pain when he shifts his arm. Shiro swallows. His throat is dry. The hum of the pod is like cotton in his ears.

Shiro takes a deep, scratchy breath. He opens his eyes, and the ship lights are like a sea of stars. Shiro tenses. A voice reaches him through the door of the pod, and Shiro blinks the spots from his vision. Allura.

“Shiro?” Allura says. “Shiro, can you hear me?”

Shiro coughs. His eyes smart at the lights. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Loud and clear.”

The door to the pod opens, and a burst of air ruffles Shiro's clothes. Allura stands planted on the other side of the door, arms crossed. Shiro pauses, awkward, and feels Allura's scowl bore a hole through his head.

Shiro seems to remember how to move his legs, and he toes forward onto the main deck. The pod door slips shut behind him.

Allura looks Shiro up and down, almost grumpily, like she expects him to dissipate. Shiro lets her stare. He rolls back his shoulders.

“You gave us quite a scare,” Allura says, after a while.

Shiro doesn't know what to say to that. He's still dressed in his prison getup, complete with a lint-puckered shirt and baggy pants. He shivers once, from the cold. Allura's face crumples. Her arms drop to her sides, and then she leans forward and embraces Shiro like she plans to crush him to powder. Shiro makes a surprised sound. He loops his arms around Allura's back, only to startle at the harsh clatter of footfall; Shiro looks up over Allura's shoulder as Coran rounds the bend to the control room.

“Princess!” Coran cries. The rest of the Voltron crew are hot on his heels, hair wild as they shake the helmets from their heads. “We got your transmission—”

“Shiro!” Lance shouts—and the team's helmets hit the floor. The paladins pile up alongside Allura; Shiro struggles to stay upright under the strength of the group hug. A rush of warmth and relief fills the room, as tangible as the paladin's arms around Shiro's torso.

“Shiro! You're okay!”

“We thought we'd lost you for a second, there...”

“You were asleep for days!

“Keith nearly had an aneurism—”

“Shut up, Lance!”

“—We're so sorry we couldn't get to you sooner!”

“We had to capture a cargo ship, and then figure out how to strengthen Pidge's shields—”

“And find someone who would give us a ship map and distract the guards!”

“It was a mess...”

“It's over now, though.”

“Yeah; welcome back, Shiro! You've earned yourself a loooong vacation, buddy.”

“We're gonna' take some time off. Explore some planets, make some allies...”

“It'll be super low-key—”

It's all too much, too fast. Shiro snaps. He pushes the mob away—claws at the arms around his middle like they're the restraints from the electrocution rack. Shiro's movements are clumsy; feral. His muscles spasm on their own accord. He stumbles backwards. The paladins' hands slip from Shiro's torso, his sides, his back.

Team Voltron retreats to form a loose half-circle around Shiro where he stands on the pod platform—and suddenly Shiro has become a stranger.

It's silent but for Shiro's shallow breaths. The stars are blue and hazy outside.

“Shiro...” Hunk says at last. The paladins watch as Shiro raises his right arm. Shiro's hand flares to life. “What are you doing...?”

“Sorry, everyone," Shiro says. He turns the blade towards his neck. “See you next time.”

Keith is faster.

He kicks Shiro's feet out from under him; Shiro lands on his back with a thud, his arms outstretched to cushion his fall. Keith dives at Shiro like a kingfisher. The shock wears off fast enough for Shiro to roll out of his way, but Keith claws him downwards before he can clamber to his feet.

Shiro and Keith have sparred often enough to anticipate each other's movements. The two wrestle on the floor, and the fight feels like muscle memory. There's a familiar cadence of feet and fists, even as Shiro lashes out on the ground like a wounded animal. Keith recognizes Shiro under the panic. Twice Shiro's blade brushes his neck, and twice Keith grasps Shiro by the wrist and yanks the blade away. There's a spurt of blood—from whom, Shiro can't tell.

Then a split second of confusion. The rhythm stutters; they never draw blood when they spar.

Keith takes advantage of the lull. He lunges at Shiro. A whoosh of air, a clang from Shiro's metal arm, and Keith pins Shiro to the floor. Keith's good at this. He knows how to best distribute his weight; how to keep Shiro, the heavier opponent, trapped under his legs and hands. Lance and Hunk rush over before Shiro can wriggle out from Keith's hold. Hunk leaps to restrain Shiro's feet, Lance his arms. Allura barks out an order—something to do with cuffs—and Pidge dashes from the scene.

Shiro's chest heaves. Lance is talking, but Shiro can't make out the words. His eyes are locked on Keith's again.

Keith glares down at Shiro from above, his own breath coming in short spurts. He's on his hands and knees, propped up over Shiro's ribcage, his fingers knuckle-white where they grip Shiro's arms. Blood beads down the left side of his face, pools under his chin, and patters drop by drop onto the fabric of Shiro's shirt. There's a gash on his cheek.

Shiro clamps his teeth together. Keith doesn't move. His eyes are wide. His fingers quake a little.

Keith's blood seeps through Shiro's shirt.

"You're gonna' be okay," someone says, from far away. Shiro only uncurls his fists. He lets his right hand dim, then fade to black.

He relaxes under Keith's hold and listens for the air vent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! Oh my!  
> This chapter's playlist:  
> "Space Oddity" - Jherek Bischoff, Amanda Palmer, Neil Gaiman  
> "He Dreams He's Awake" - Stars  
> "If There's a Rocket Tie Me to It" - Snow Patrol


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, the final chapter. This time: Chess games, contraband drinks and plenty of angst.

The Galran vessel was a raucous place. Whenever they hit hyperdrive, the excess air would strike the vents at an odd angle, and the sound would rattle down the halls like birdsong. If Shiro pressed his ear to the floor, he could hear the electric clicks downstairs, the frizzle of quintessence as energy shot up and and down the ship's nervous system. Some days the whole ship pulsed like the neck of a great beast.

The Castle of Lions feels dead by contrast. The quiet stings.

Team Voltron gathers outside Shiro's room to argue. Shiro can make out an undercurrent of tension through the door. The barest crumbs of conversation reach him; he catches words like table scraps, but they don't fit together out of context.

Shiro's hands flex against his cuffs. He sits at the rear of his bed, cross-legged, each wrist cuffed to a separate bedpost. It's only a dream, but every time a crew member looks through the window on his door, Shiro's heart sinks.

At last the door opens. Light from the hallway yellows the outlines of Shiro's furniture, the stream broken by Keith's shadow. It's a familiar sight, by now—Keith's body, black against the glare of a hallway light. In time, the door slides shut behind Keith, and the light gets swept away like a patch of dust. Keith's face becomes visible. He still hasn't had time to change out of his armor. Someone gave him a pad for his cheek—an Altean bandaid of sorts. There's a spot of dried blood under his chin.

Keith's eyes find Shiro's, as they always do. He's never been one to look away.

“You should get to a pod,” Shiro suggests.

Keith won't bite. “I need to take off your arm."

Keith looks at Shiro like he dares him to put up a fight. Shiro only lifts his right arm. The cuff snags on his wrist, and a hum of magnetic energy tickles his skin.

“There's a little hatch near the elbow,” Shiro says, “and then a screen under that, with a passcode...”

Keith's shoulders lower by degrees. The dark room turns his eyes to slate. Keith steps forward. He drags a chair over from Shiro's empty desk—plunks down beside Shiro's bed. Runs his hands through his hair once, like he can shake the tension out of the room. Then he reaches for Shiro's arm.

Shiro tenses when Keith's hands meet his bicep. Keith pauses, then proceeds at a reduced pace. He traces the contours of Shiro's arm until his fingers find the hatch on his elbow. There's a tiny ledge on the outside; Keith picks open the clasp, and a screen perks up under his fingers.

“First dot, third dot, first dot, second dot,” Shiro says. Keith leans out of his chair to enter the code. Shiro's arm clicks, and the suction releases around his upper arm. Keith turns to the nearest bedpost. He undoes the cuff around Shiro's metal wrist and guides the arm off Shiro's stump. The actual limb ends at the elbow, though the prosthetic passes his bicep.

Keith stands, Shiro's prosthetic cradled to his chest. He hovers for a moment, eyes downcast. Then he crosses back to the door.

The door creeps open at Keith's knock; a slot of hallway light plays across the floor. Murmurs ensue. Keith passes the limb to Coran, who cranes his neck to get a look at Shiro on the bed.

Shiro swallows. He can't see Coran's face through the gloom. Keith makes one last comment, and the door closes.

Keith turns around.

“You got that sock somewhere?” Keith asks.

Shiro raises an eyebrow. His teammates rarely see him with his arm off; he's surprised Keith even remembers he has a compression sock. “Bedside drawer.”

There's a short clunk as the drawer rolls open. Keith picks through Shiro's bedside drawer like an excavator on a dig. He emerges with Shiro's compression sock, shuts the drawer, and returns to his chair. Keith sits down; he looks between Shiro's stump and the compression sock.

“They don't want me to uncuff your other hand,” Keith says, like an apology.

Shiro expected this. “It's fine,” he lies, and he offers up his stunted arm.

The flesh at the end of Shiro's elbow, knotted and alien, hangs like the skin of his thighs. It's a gross reminder of Shiro's time as a Galran prisoner; worse perhaps than his new metal arm, which at least serves a purpose. Keith doesn't comment on Shiro's scars. He stretches the sock between his hands, then rolls the material up onto Shiro's tricep.

“You said something about waking up,” Keith prompts. He hikes the sock up until it fits snuggly around Shiro's arm.

Shiro keeps his eyes off Keith's face; suddenly the cut on his cheek makes Shiro's stomach churn. “It's like what happened with the Blade,” Shiro says, past the shame. He sees Keith lean back out of the corner of his eye. His hands slide off Shiro's arm. “They're using magic to project my hopes and fears.”

Keith crosses his legs. “So you think this is a dream.”

Shiro's silence speaks for itself. Shiro braves a glance at Keith's face. Keith doesn't make to speak for a moment. At last he reaches up and picks a piece of lint off the edge of Shiro's bed. “Anything I can do to convince you this is real?”

“Not particularly, no.”

Keith sighs. He rolls the lint ball between his fingers. “Well, how will you be able to tell when the real Voltron comes to rescue you?”

“I'll know. Somehow.” Shiro pauses. “You know what it's like, when you wake up from a dream and the real world seems...obvious? And you can't believe you ever thought the dream was real?”

“Yeah,” Keith says, “but there's not always a big difference. Don't your dreams ever make more sense than the real world?” Keith seems to notice his own nervous energy, and he clasps his hands together to keep them still. “I mean, we pilot giant space lions, Shiro. That's pretty...out there.”

“I suppose.”

“I just...” Keith struggles for words. “Would you lose anything from letting the dream run its course?”

“It's hard to say,” Shiro says. “I don't know what my physical body is doing right now, or how much of this conversation the Galra are actually hearing.”

“So be careful what you say,” Keith says. There's a desperate tinge to his voice. It reminds Shiro of their first time with the Blade, when Keith had reached out to Shiro's hologram. “Hang back a little. You'll be fine.”

Shiro lets a sip of air past his teeth. He shakes his head.

“I'm so tired, Keith,” Shiro says. “I don't know how many more times I can take this...”

“Just one more time.” Keith laces his fingers together so tightly they start to tremble from the strain. “For me, Shiro. For the rest of the team. One more time. And then—you can do whatever you want.”

Shiro's bare toes curl against the comforter on his bed. He still hasn't had a chance to change out of his prison garb. The fingers of his cuffed hand outline the metal ledge of his bedpost.

“Please,” Keith adds, when Shiro won't look at him.

Shiro's lungs fill and deflate with cool, clean air. He struggles not to bite his lower lip.

“All right,” Shiro concedes. He can physically feel Keith relax against his chair. “One more time.”

 

 

When the video games get dull, Lance plays chess.

The space malls don't carry chessboards, so Lance makes do with found materials. A leftover wall plate serves as the board; long hatch-lines form the squares. Stones take the place of pieces. The kings are pebbles from Arus, the rooks from Balmera, the bishops from Olkari...the queens are crystals, harvested from an asteroid belt.

Shiro turns his “knight” between his fingers—an acorn-sized rock from a moon called Niveus—and studies the board. Lance leans back on his hands, perched across from Shiro on the floor of the lounge, and grins like a cat with a can-opener.

“And that's why you don't take on the chess club captain,” he gloats.

Shiro looks up. “You were captain of a chess team?” he asks, and places his piece.

Lance rolls his head back, and his neck cricks. “Before high school. There was an after-school club in the gym, and my parents were always working late, so...”

“Well, the lessons paid off.” Shiro watches as Lance takes one of his pawns. “Bishops are green, right?”

“Yep.”

“Then...” Shiro slides the rock sideways over the board. “Your move.”

“Sheesh, you're fast.”

Shiro smiles. “I have a plan.”

“Yeah? Well, so do I.” Lance advances with his rook. It's a subtle move, obviously in service of a future attack. Shiro looks over the board again, and Lance sighs.

“Hey, Shiro...” he says. He stacks two of Shiro's dead pawns on top of each other. “I'm...really bad at this kind of thing.”

Shiro looks up passed his cowlick. “What kind of thing?”

“Being there for people,” Lance says. He stares down at his pile of rocks. “I feel like some people just...know what to say to make everyone feel better. But I don't. Should I pretend nothing happened? Do you want to talk about it?”

Shiro pauses. He looks back at the board, lost, and scrubs a hand under his jaw. Then he moves his bishop. It blocks Lance's rook.

“It's fine,” Shiro says.

“Yeah, but.” Lance makes a flustered gesture. “Is there something I could do to help?”

It's a difficult question. Shiro sits up straight, cross-legged and sheepish. “Honestly, I'm not sure.” Lance takes a while on his next move. Shiro turns his gaze upward. “I was alone in my cell a lot of the time. It'd be nice to hear someone talk for a while...”

“Sure,” Lance says. He doesn't take Shiro's bishop, but advances a pawn. “Any preference, topic-wise?”

“Whatever you like.”

So Lance talks. He talks about his home on the coast; the cul-de-sac where he grew up. He talks about the yard that opened up like a sea, full of yarrow and sandbur and old slabs of wood, and the cement driveway with a crack down the middle. He talks about drought and flash floods, and how he and his friends would run down the streets as rain pounded the asphalt, until water flattened their clothes and their toes started to prune. He talks about grades and ADHD. He talks about language barriers and the way smog turned the sky yellow.

It's a relief to be able to sit with someone like this. Shiro laughs and nods when the mood strikes, but he never feels pressured to contribute to the conversation. Lance snaps out of a monologue several times with an apologetic look on his face, like he's worried he's gone on too long—but Shiro always waves him onward. An hour passes like that. The space between turns widens as Lance waxes on about the ocean; his first dog; his love of folk-lore and old comics. At last Lance corners Shiro's king, and the game draws to a close. Shiro helps Lance collect the pieces.

“So, yeah—that pretty much sums up my childhood,” Lance says, as he does up the knot around his rock bag. He notices that he forgot a bishop on the edge of the board, and yanks the laces open again with a huff. “We've got another, like...ten minutes before Pidge comes to get you? Sorry about all this escort stuff...”

“It's can't be helped,” Shiro says. “And...thank you. For talking to me.”

“Hey man, any time.” Lance smiles. “You play a mean game of chess. Want a rematch soon?"

“I'd be honored.”

 

 

Allura and Coran hid Shiro's arm somewhere deep within the castle. The paladins trade off as Shiro's babysitters. They follow him to the gym, the archives room, the lounge, the kitchen...only Shiro's quarters remain private, with its lack of heavy equipment and sharp objects.

His first night back, Shiro lies awake on his bed. He tosses and turns...squeezes his eyes shut until he sees dots behind his eyelids. At last he gives up on a good night's sleep. Shiro climbs out of bed, eyes watery, and clambers onto the floor.

As Shiro cycles through his first round of one-armed pushups, he swears he hears feet shuffle past the door. It's like Shiro's back on the Galra ship, with guards outside his cell. His ears perk for the whirl of the air vent. There's the static prickle of silence—perhaps another slide of bare feet outside. No clicks. No whistles. Just the stony peace of the castle.

Shiro's dreams have never lasted this long before. Perhaps he really has been rescued.

Shiro thinks about the cut on Keith's cheek, and his teammates' frightened looks. He returns to his pushups with renewed vigor. Shiro lets his fears white out under the strain.

 

 

“It's a kind of low-grade X band radar,” Pidge says. She hands Shiro a metal box with a stamp-sized satellite on one side. “Point it at something and press the button.”

Shiro raises an eyebrow. He directs the satellite at the doorway across from Pidge's workbench. He presses the black button on top of the box. There's a little ping, and then a tinny voice says, “four point eight meters.”

Shiro starts, then smiles. “Is that your voice?”

“I recorded the sound bites,” Pidge says. She peels off her work gloves. “The antenna shoots out radio waves...a receiver unit records the seconds it takes for them to bounce back to the box, and uses that data to estimate distance. It's not a perfect science, of course—too many frequencies will confuse the receiver.”

“And you made this with a broken radio and some rusty panels.” Shiro shakes his head. “I swear Pidge, you could make a ship out of a toaster oven.”

“Is that a challenge?” Pidge slips off her stool and turns to clean up her work area. Shiro tries to return the box, but Pidge only makes a nervous gesture; “It's for you,” she says. “It's dumb, but—I know you've been struggling with reality lately, and I thought something tangible might...help, somehow.”

Shiro looks down at the box in his hand. It's sleek but quirky, unique like all of Pidge's gadgets. In the wake of Shiro's uncertainty last night, he feels a sudden burst of shame. “I'm sorry to make you worry like this,” Shiro says.

Pidge looks up at Shiro. Her eyes are sad. “Geez, don't be sorry. It's all part of the process.”

“The process?”

“The whole...” Pidge clenches her fingers once, like she can grasp the words out of the air. “I don't know. There's this phase after someone nearly dies, when everyone gets all panicky. And people go out of their way to help, and it's uncomfortable and kind of embarrassing.”

“Oh."

“Yeah. Eventually the commotion'll die down and we'll figure out a routine and people'll worry less.” Pidge's cheeks are red now. She collects the scraps on her desk and arranges her tools along the shelves. “So don't...worry about making me worried. Is my point.”

Shiro watches Pidge for a while. The box fits snugly in his palm, and he runs his thumb along the edge. Slowly, he stands up. He sets the box on his stool and approaches Pidge. She hears his footsteps and turns around, hands clenched around a cup bur as Shiro reaches out to her. His one hand finds Pidge's arm, and Shiro gathers her to his chest.

“Thank you,” Shiro says.

Pidge hovers for a second, like she's shut down. Then she wraps her arms around Shiro and pulls him close, cheek pressed to his shirtfront.

“Don't try to leave like that again?” she asks.

Shiro lifts his hand to ruffle her hair. He means to reply, but the silence stretches out. Shiro returns his hand to Pidge's back, and holds her tight to compensate.

 

 

The sleep-pod may have healed him physically, but Shiro's fatigue lingers like a fog. Shiro has trained himself to sleep in short spurts—rest is hard to come by on a Galra warship—but occasionally he surprises himself with a proper doze. Shiro wakes up from one such reprieve and lays for a while on his bed, counting the panels that make up his bed-alcove. He reaches for the device on his side table and points it at the ceiling;

“2.1 meters. 2.1 meters. 2.1 meters...”

Shiro has been “back” for over a day and a half now. He's slept and bathed and eaten. That unnamable anxiety seizes Shiro's chest again; he doesn't understand why the thought of legitimate success shakes him so deeply. Perhaps it's the concept of consequence—perhaps it's the still-unshakable suspicion that he's been tricked. Perhaps it's the ingrained belief that he doesn't deserve to be rescued.

Shiro clicks the button again.

“ 2.1 meters. 2.1 meters...”

And for the second time, footsteps shuffle outside. Shiro rolls out of bed. He sets Pidge's device back on his side table and crosses to the door.

Keith is on the other side, poised to knock. Shiro has gotten used to seeing him tussled by now; it seems as though Keith is always en route to or back from the gym. He's wearing his grey shirt, and he looks thinner than Shiro remembers.

“Hey,” Keith says, as Shiro's door slides open. He's surprised to have been caught; he crosses his arms in a defensive gesture. “Sorry to drop by like this...”

“It's fine,” Shiro says, because that's what he says these days. “What's up?”

“I wanted to...” Keith breathes out slowly, as if to make room for more words in his mouth. “What did you dream about?”

“What?”

“You said, 'so you always say.' Back on the ship. Like you'd escaped with me before.”

Shiro's stump twinges. Keith waits for some kind of acknowledgement. When Shiro won't confirm or refute his claim, Keith's shoulders sag.

“If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine,” Keith says. It's not fine. Shiro can feel the air curdle between them as he stands there, mute.

“It really doesn't matter,” Shiro manages at length. “What happened wasn't real.”

Keith narrows his eyes. “It still _happened_.”

Shiro makes to reply. He's rescued when footsteps sound from down the hall. Shiro turns his head, and Allura strolls towards them down the corridor. Her step is light but purposeful. Her eyes go from Keith to Shiro as she approaches: “Oh,” she says, and draws up short. “I'm sorry; I didn't mean to interrupt!”

“Don't worry about it,” Keith says, hands stuffed in his pockets. “I was headed to the gym anyway. You two talk.”

Allura's brow furrows. “Are you sure?” she asks. “It looked as though you were—”

But Keith has already started away. “See you later,” he calls, mostly to the hall ahead of him.

Allura can't seem to decide whether or not to be miffed by Keith's dismissal. She and Shiro watch as Keith rounds the bend of the hallway. Once he's out of earshot, Allura puts her hands on her hips. She sighs at the floor.

Shiro pads to Allura's side. “You all right?” 

Allura pauses. She seems to gauge Shiro's emotional state, then proceeds: “I'm frustrated,” she says. “Your capture was difficult for everyone, but Keith...” Allura's eyes flash with emotion for a moment. “Keith became untouchable.”

Shiro's fingers clench. He stares back at the bend where he last saw Keith, his mouth a thin, worried line.

“He seemed ready to reach out,” Allura finishes at length. “I wish I hadn't cut you off like that.”

“It's not your fault,” Shiro assures her. “I'll make sure to talk to him again soon.” He rocks back on his heels, and the cold floor stings his skin. “Were you coming to see me—?”

“Oh,” Allura says, shaken from her thoughts. “Yes, I was. Hunk and I have prepared something for you.”

Shiro raises his eyebrows. Allura flaps a hand at him; “A drink,” she elaborates. “It's in the kitchen if you'd like to try it.”

“Sure,” Shiro says, bemused. “Just let me get my shoes...”

 

 

Allura and Hunk's “drink” turns out to be a blue-colored sludge; Shiro stares down at his cup of goo with morbid curiosity.

“It was common for Alteans to immerse themselves in virtual reality for days at a time,” Allura explains. Her headband twinkles under the kitchen lights. “The transition back to reality was sometimes...disorienting. This drink was designed to expedite the process.”

“Can you believe it, Shiro?” Hunk holds up a disk and beams. He's propped up against a kitchen counter, encircled by a legion of bowls, boxes and utensils. “Allura dug up this old recipe card from the archives. There are tons of Altean remedies on here! Granted, they probably taste awful...”

“Smells nice, at least.” Shiro tilts his cup. The liquid clings to the sides in a glossy film. “Should I...?”

“Small sips,” Allura suggests, gesturing with her thumb and forefinger. She and Hunk watch, alight with anticipation, as Shiro's lips meet the cup rim. The sludge tapers down the cup towards Shiro's mouth; Shiro takes a swig.

It's not so much a drink as a chemical blast, cold like Everest and sharp as a needle-point. Shiro's skin goose-pimples over; he feels with sudden clarity the sweat on his hand, the prickle where his hair brushes his forehead, the ache of his stump. The kitchen lights flare up so Shiro can barely see.

“You okay, man?” Hunk asks. Shiro's head is like a shaken coke can. He can feel the weight of Hunk and Allura's combined presence, warm and organic. Shiro could navigate the room with his eyes closed. “You're looking a little spaced out, there...”

“This is amazing,” Shiro says. He's never been so aware of his own heartbeat; he wiggles his toes in his shoes. “Quiznak. Has anyone ever survived a full glass of this stuff...?”

“Altean physiology is different from humans',” Allura says, but there's a grin on her face. Her aura dims as she speaks. “It's difficult to compare the two—though tolerance levels varied between Alteans, and there was some discourse as to the legality of such drinks...”

The cold starts to fade from Shiro's mouth. The drink slides away down his digestive tract. In the wake of his return to normalcy, Shiro feels awake and tingly.

Shiro can feel Allura and Hunk's eyes on him as he stands there, rendered mute suddenly. At last he swishes his cup.

“You sure you're okay?” Hunk prods, as the silence lengthens.

Shiro looks up. Hunk waits, bandana wilted a little across his forehead.

Shiro's Adam's apple bobs. He takes a deep breath.

“Can I carry some of this with me?”

 

 

Normally, Shiro does his best to avoid Slav. Slav's constant allusions to the fragility of existence don't exactly boost Shiro's morale. Beyond that, their personalities grate against each other like metal on fine china.

Today, Shiro seeks him out.

“What are the chances that any of this is real?” Shiro asks, leant up against a wall with his hand over his right shoulder.

Slav putters away at his computer. “Oh, absolutely abysmal,” he says. His computer beeps. “But then, that depends on your definition of 'reality.'”

Shiro exhales loudly. “Okay,” he says. “I'll rephrase. What are the chances that we're all experiencing the same timeline?”

“Impossible to determine,” Slav says. Shiro expected numbers; he cocks his head. “The randomness of the natural world would suggest we are not alone—variables cannot exist within a vacuum—but everything we perceive is ultimately abstracted by our senses and beliefs.”

Shiro stares down at his feet. “And you can live with that knowledge?”

Slav actually snorts. His many hands still on the keypad. “I do not live so much as ritualize,” he says. “You are of course aware of my...quirks.”

It's the first time Shiro has heard Slav acknowledge his compulsions. He squints at the floor. There's a putter-putter sound as Slav swivels away from his desktop.

“Shiro,” Slav says, seriously. He puts a pair of hands on his knees. “I have dedicated my life to the study of quantum realities. It has brought me much pain and suffering.”

It's a rhetorical statement. Shiro stands there against the wall, awkward. He looks up, and his boots scritch on the floor.

Slav leans forward in his chair. “You must focus on the realities in front of you, Shiro,” he says. “Those are the ones that matter. You will lose yourself if you keep looking sideways.”

 

 

The ship enters a dense energy field. The excess quintessence plays tricks on the castle's equipment. Lights flicker; doors seal shut; temperatures drop. The risks of distention are too high for Allura to try and form a wormhole, so team Voltron hunkers down and waits for the cloud to pass.

The energy in the air is tangible, and dangerous in its volatility. Shiro closes his eyes, and he swears he can feel the particles skitter across his skin.

Over dinner that night, the conversation is stunted but warm. Shiro smiles and laughs at all the right times. He makes an effort to stay engaged. He feels as though his spirit has hung suspended above him for weeks, and he's only now begun to tow it back into his body.

And then the lights go out.

A collective groan rises from the table. There's a shift of shadows as Lance raises his arms.

“Aaaand there it is.”

“Jeez, I can barely see.” A creak of chair legs.

“It's not that bad, you guys.”

“Do we have some kind of backup generator, or...?”

“Actually,” Coran says, and Shiro can almost hear him pinch his mustache. “We do. It runs on recycled solar energy. It should switch on momentarily—” A low hum putters to life somewhere beneath their feet, and Coran starts. “Ah! Speak of the devil.”

“The lights will be back on as soon as the generator warms up,” Allura assures them all. Shiro can feel her eyes on him; he runs a quick check on his posture. Shiro realizes that his hand is curled into a fist. He relaxes, and his fingernails leave crescent moon shapes on his palm.

Keith's gaze finds Shiro. Shiro can feel his concern from across the table. Shiro opens his mouth to speak—but then the generator starts to whistle, and he's on the Galra ship again.

The cold floor cuts Shiro's skin, unhindered by his flimsy prison garb. The Galra are on their way to collect him for another session. Shiro's whole body aches. He has to detach, or he won't be able to bear the pain.

“Shiro? Can you hear me?”

The air vents shake with birdsong. Shiro hugs his knees to his chest, pressed up against his cell's far wall. Home. Think of home...

“Shiro. Come back.”

But does he even want to go home? He can't. Home hurts too much. At least here no one has to see him. At least here, Shiro doesn't have to pretend.

“Please...”

The voice reaches Shiro through his cell door. He resists the urge to cover his ears.

The cell door opens...

The castle lights are back on. Shiro and Keith are alone, huddled together on the floor outside the dining room. Shiro is crouched against the hallway wall, legs drawn close to his body, arm braced along the floor. His feet slip, and he settles more firmly on the ground.

Keith reaches out where he's seated across from Shiro, a foot or so away, and his palm meets Shiro's knee. Keith's eyes are bright under the lights.

“Shiro...”

Shiro watches Keith's hand tremble ever so slightly. It's a reverberation; Shiro has started to shake. He feels thin and fragile like soaked paper.

“I'm really back, aren't I?” Shiro asks.

Keith's lips tremble, then quirk up into a smile.

He ducks his head.

“Yeah,” Keith says, wetly. “You really are.”

Shiro feels his eyes prickle. He lets his head fall back against the wall. He stares at the ceiling like he used to stare at the stars.

There's a rustle. Keith crowds closer. His movements are clumsy and wretched; he aligns himself over Shiro's lap and leans forward until his forehead brushes Shiro's collarbone. His fingers bunch around the material of Shiro's shirt.

“I'm sorry,” Keith says. His voice wobbles as he chokes on a sob; his hair tickles Shiro's chin. “I'm so sorry...”

Startled, Shiro loops an arm around Keith's back. Shiro listens to him hiccup and stutter, and he runs his palm up and down Keith's back.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...”

“Shh,” Shiro murmurs. Shiro feels Keith's fingers on his shirt, and he thinks he understands. He tucks his head down against Keith's shoulder. Keith's breaths are fast and shallow against his neck.

“It's okay,” Shiro says, to both of them. He closes his eyes, and lets his hand cup the back of Keith's neck. “I'm here. I'm back. I'm not going anywhere.”

 

 

Shiro finds the courage to visit the Black Lion. Coran escorts him to her hangar.

“She's been out of commission since your disappearance,” Coran says. The hangar doors slide open; Black sits on the flight deck, calm and distant like a sphinx. Her eyes are an offline grey. “Were you ever in range to contact her?”

“I shut her out,” Shiro admits. “I didn't want her to know what I was going through.” He passes through the door, then slows his pace, unable to walk any closer to Black's paws. Coran comes to a stop at Shiro's side, and together the two stare up at Black's metal head. There's a small click as the hangar door suctions shut behind them.

Coran crosses his arms.

“I'm sure she'll be relieved to hear from you again,” he tries at last.

Shiro has his doubts. He shifts his weight onto his right leg. “I'd like to go in alone.”

“Very well. I'll be here when you return.”

Shiro puts on his best smile. “Thank you, Coran.”

Most of Black's systems are off, so Shiro has to use a side entrance. He walks rather than rides up to the cockpit. The atmosphere in the control room is unfamiliar. Shiro steps towards the pilot's chair, and the space feels cool and sterile. It reminds Shiro of a hospital room.

The light from the hangar deck filters through Black's eyes. It's bright enough for Shiro to navigate Black's helm, and he patrols the length of her control panel. He rests his hand on the Bayard pad.

“Hey, bud,” Shiro murmurs.

No response. Shiro retracts his hand. A dust mote twirls past the window.

Shiro has to open his mind up. There's still a barrier between him and Black. Shiro runs his hand through his hair. He sighs, turns, and slumps into the pilot's chair.

Shiro closes his eyes. He leans back so that his head meets the headrest.

The quiet thrums in Shiro's ears.

“I'm here,” Shiro breathes.

Shiro focuses. His energy manifests as tiny dots of light. In Shiro's mind, he has two human hands. He collects the particles that make him real, and offers them outward towards the void.

Shiro's awareness tingles. His whole body buzzes.

“I'm here,” Shiro repeats. He stifles the urge to clench his fingers around the arm rest.

Somewhere in the darkness, a match strikes. There's a flicker of white light, far away.

Shiro's heartbeat races. In the mental plane, he steps forward. The light grows stronger. Shiro's pupils contract. Goose-pimples raise the hair on his skin.

The Black Lion rumbles, and Shiro fights back tears.

“Hey, Black,” he says.

The Black Lion accosts Shiro with mental pictures: Debris, sunlight, metal, Galra soldiers, empty space. Shiro can't help but smile at Black's exasperated tone; “I know,” he says. “I'm sorry.” Warmth arrives with some derision. It's like Black has curled around his mind. Her astral tail swats his torso.

Worry, fear. Relief.

“Yes.” In the real world, Shiro wipes his eyes with his sleeve. “Never again. I promise.”

Peace settles over Shiro like a blanket. He sees the castle through Black's eyes. He feels the crystals under the floor—the buzz of energy from the lion's separate hangars. The whole castle gleams with unseen energy.

Shiro understands. He runs a mental hand over Black's muzzle.

“Thank you,” Shiro says.

Black huffs at him. It's a fond sound.

 

 

Shiro exits his lion some time later. He finds Coran perched outside the hangar door; Shiro doesn't expect to see Keith at his side, and he does a bit of a double-take as he passes the threshold.

Coran twists around at the hiss of the hangar door. “Welcome back!” he says. He raises a hand. Keith hunches behind him and moves to leave. “How did it go?”

“Really well,” Shiro says. He cranes his neck as Keith strides away down the hall. “Keith?”

“I'm fine, Shiro,” Keith says. “See you at dinner.”

Shiro pauses for a moment, his feet rooted to the floor. He turns to Coran, who only cocks an eyebrow.

“Go ahead,” Coran says.

Shiro squares his shoulders. He forces his feet off the ground, and starts after Keith.

Keith must hear Shiro's footsteps, because he peeks over his shoulder. His face falls at Shiro's approach; he turns and picks up the pace. He ducks and swerves, but Shiro has tread these pathways too many times on too many sleepless nights to let Keith shake him. He pursues Keith with a resolve he doesn't fully understand.

“Keith,” Shiro says, whenever he catches sight of Keith around a corner. “Wait—”

But Keith starts to run. Shiro can hear the slap of his boots against the floor. Shiro swears.

In some deep, distant way, Shiro knows that he has to talk to Keith. The Black Lion goads him on. So Shiro starts to run, too. His feet pound the floor. The hallway lights blur.

“Keith, please!” Shiro says. He skids around a bend. A flutter of grey catches his eye; he turns fast enough to see Keith punch open a side room. The door slams shut before Shiro can bridge the gap. Shiro slows to a halt and tilts his head back. “Keith...”

“Would you stop already?” Keith demands through the door. “It's fine. You don't have to talk to me.”

Shiro feels his stomach churn. “What do you mean, 'have to talk to you?' You're a paladin of Voltron. We're teammates, Keith. I'll always want to talk to you.”

“Bullshit.” A dull thump. “I make you uncomfortable.”

Shiro's heart stutters. He moves closer to the door. “Of course you don't.”

“Don't lie.” Keith says. “I know I hurt you. I know that's what you dreamed about. And I'm telling you—we can go slow. You can stay away from me. It's okay.”

“Keith,” Shiro pleads. “I don't want to stay away from you. I'm not afraid of you.”

“Then why?” Keith snaps. He sounds angry now. “Why do you always look at me like you're scared of me?”

The words are out before Shiro can stop them: “Because you kissed me.”

Shiro's world grinds to a halt. The floor feels distant under his feet. His fingers are numb.

There's a tiny clack as Keith steps closer to his side of the door.

“What?” Keith asks.

Shiro swallows. He rests his forehead on the door. He makes to speak, but the words won't come.

Shiro squeezes his eyes shut. The coldness of the door grounds him.

“In my dreams,” Shiro says at last, “you always came to rescue me.” Another pause. “I made you...hold me. And one day...I made you kiss me.”

“You made me...”

“I wanted you to kiss me.” Shiro amends. “So you did. And I still...” A pause. “That's why I'm scared, Keith. I do need to stay away from you for a while. I need to find help. But I refuse to let you believe that you make me uncomfortable. You're not the problem. You're never the problem.”

A long moment passes. Shiro exhales slowly, and his breath leaves a white patch on the door. He forces his shoulders to droop. Shiro steps back, then turns, poised to return to his quarters.

He's only a few feet away when Keith's door glides open.

Shiro pivots. He watches as Keith stalks towards him; Shiro stands stock-still. He expects to be punched—Keith's hands are fists at his sides—but Keith only reaches up to cup Shiro's face.

Shiro blinks. He moves to step back, but Keith's grip tightens suddenly.

“Don't walk away again,” Keith pleads.

Shiro stills. Keith stares up at him.

Keith's fingers convulse.

“I love you,” Keith says.

“Keith—”

“If you tell me I'm too young for you,” Keith warns, “I may throttle you.”

“You _are_ too young for me.”

Keith practically growls. “I'm a soldier, Shiro,” Keith says. “I've killed thousands of Galra. You told me on that planet, and before we met the Blade, that you wanted me to lead Voltron. If you trust me enough to make command decisions on behalf of the entire goddamn universe, I think you should believe me when I say I'm in love with you.”

“It's different.”

“How?” Keith cries. His hands drop from Shiro's face. “Do you know what it did to me, when Kerberos failed? Do you know what it's been like this past year, losing you over and over again? I don't even recognize myself anymore.”

Shiro's throat seizes up. “I can't have this,” he manages.

“Why not?”

“I'm not...” Shiro trails off. “I'm not okay.”

Keith pauses. His anger fizzles out like the last strands of a firework.

The castle wanders on through space. Keith's hands find Shiro's sides.

“I know,” Keith says, at last. He leans upward. “I know...”

It's not like the kiss in Shiro's dream. It's chaste but firm; a press of lips on lips. It's gentle to the point of pain. Keith draws back, and Shiro can't breathe—he lurches forward, drunk on desperation, and kisses Keith a second time.

Shiro knows he's gone too far. He can't trust Keith to love him. Hell, he can't allow Keith to love him. But then Keith's mouth opens against Shiro's, and his whole world blooms. Shiro's heartbeat plays double-time against his ribs. Keith's hand cards through Shiro's hair—down the length of the neck.

Shiro feels truly alive.

He and Keith kiss—three times, four—before they duck back for air, cheeks flushed, Shiro's hair ruffled. Keith's hands are on Shiro's back. He tugs Shiro forward so that his chest meets Keith's. Shiro can feel Keith's heartbeat. He lets his eyes close for a moment, lulled by the steady pitter patter. He sags, and rests his head on Keith's shoulder.

Keith hums. His own head turns to brush Shiro's. Keith must feel the wetness on his shirt, because he starts to murmur at Shiro; the words lull together like a prayer. When Shiro draws back at last, Keith's eyes are soft and full of light.

Shiro's heart aches. He dares the trace his thumb up Keith's cheek. Shiro brushes over the spot where he'd struck him days before.

Keith catches Shiro's hand. Deliberately, he locks their fingers together.

Shiro offers up a watery smile.

“You're warm,” he says.

Keith smiles back. “So are you.”

A part of Shiro wants to run away. A part of him still feels like he's asleep. Keith must see the uncertainty on Shiro's face, because he squeezes their fingers.

“It's okay,” Keith says. “I've got you.”

And this time, Shiro believes him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened...to Jim Gabriel's cover of "Your Hand in Mine"...so many times...while writing this. I think it's tattooed on my eardrums now. 
> 
> This chapter's playlist:  
> Your Hand in Mine - Jim Gabriel (Explosions in the Sky)  
> Wake Up - Motopony  
> It's All Right - Fractures  
> Now It's Over. Now I'm Awake. - LUCHS
> 
> I think Shiro has a long ways to go before he'll be okay—but he'll definitely get there. He has a lot of good people to lean on.
> 
> Like the story? Didn't like the story? Spot a typo? Comment down below! Your feedback gives me life. 
> 
> Thank you guys so much for your support!
> 
> Bonus: A big thank you to Paladin Pile for [their post about Shiro’s arm](https://paladin-pile.tumblr.com/post/158166120717/ok-guys-major-nerd-out-post-here-regarding)!! It totally saved my life.


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